


Moving Through the Years With You

by The_lazy_eye



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A solid mix of 1990 and Novel universes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I suck at tags, Implied first clown, Making Out, No second clown or forgetting, Set in the 1990s somewhere, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Smoking, red haired richie tozier, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_lazy_eye/pseuds/The_lazy_eye
Summary: Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever admit it but he swears he can feel something in the way they’re pressed together. He feels it when they pass notes back and forth during class or when they share the couch during movie nights. It’s in the way Richie helps her with her fashion designs and Bev volunteers to be the test of one of Richie’s new jokes or Voices. It’s laced in every interaction and every thought.





	Moving Through the Years With You

_ Set the stage. Dim the lights. Cue music. Stagehands, ready positions. The scene is as follows: Derry Middle School cafeteria. Tables and chairs are scattered everywhere. Groups of students are sat at each one in cliques of about five to eight. _

In the far right of the room sits a group of seven, the empty chair holding various backpacks, coats, and a single purse. What doesn’t fit on the chair topples over onto the ground. The only two who particularly care if their jackets touch the floor are Eddie Kaspbrak and Stan Uris. The others don’t mind so much, so their stuff takes the fall. 

Huddled close together at the end of the table sits two fiery redheads: Beverly Marsh and Richie Tozier. A freckled face leans in close to a clear complexion as they giggle softly to each other. Bill Denbrough doesn’t notice as small peas from their lunch trays are launched into his hood. Mike Hanlon, sitting opposite of Bill, tries to stifle his own smile as Richie and Bev continue their antics. Ben Hanscom sits two down from Bill, gently pawing through his textbook and talking with Stan and Eddie about their upcoming history exam that everyone knows he’ll ace. 

They’re all roughly twelve and nothing could possibly go wrong. Life is at its peak. Nothing can get better than this. Seven friends wrapped up in each other’s existence, laughing and talking and living their lives the best they can. Intertwined in ways they don’t even remember. There is an unbreakable bond thrumming between them. It’s in the way Mike’s smile reaches all the way up to his eyes. It’s how Bill’s shoulders shake when he laughs. It’s the invisible string tying Richie’s shoelaces to Ben’s belt loop; Stan’s yarmulke to Bev’s pigtails. 

When Richie runs out of peas they can see the small pile poking out of the top of Bill’s hood. Bev has to hold her breath to keep herself from laughing and even that doesn’t keep the attention off of them. Richie knows they’re not going to get caught. They never do. This isn’t the first time Richie and Bev, dynamic duo, have pulled off the prank of the lunch period. He’s honestly surprised that Bill doesn’t know what’s happening. Maybe Richie should be the leader. He’s sure as hell more perceptive than Big ol’ Bill. 

“What are you tuh-tuh-two up to?” Bill asks, eyes searching them over. 

Bev can’t answer, too busy trying to hold in the tears that are threatening to run down her face. Her hands are clasped over her mouth and her eyes are damp near bugging out of her head. Instead of talking, she buries her face in Richie’s neck and hopes that’s enough to mask her giggles.

It’s not. 

Richie just slings his arm over her shoulder and drags her in even closer before answering. “Nothing, Big Bill,” in a voice that’s all teeth and smiles and genuine mischief.

“Yeah, like I believe that,” Bill scoffs back. He rolls his eyes, his own smile playing at the edge of his lips, before he turns back to Mike to keep talking. Something about football and writing and blah, blah, blah. Richie can’t keep track. He doesn’t want to. Why would he care about sports or school when he’s got his best girl at his side?

He lets out his own breath before dissolving into a fit of giggles with Bev. They lean into each other, folding over and gripping the other’s shirt. It takes the rest of the lunch period for them to calm down and when they’re picking up their coats and bags Bev turns to Richie and asks, “So, how long until he notices?”

“I give it about five minutes before he starts leaving a solid pea-trail behind,” Richie answers, waggling his eyebrows and bumping shoulders with Bev. 

“Ew, weirdo!” She laughs back before tacking on, “How long until he realizes it was us?”

“Five minutes and one second.”

_ Stage crew, get those tables out of here. Quick, shift the backdrop. Swap the lunch chairs out for a sofa. Decorate the room with pictures of friends, a comfortable Lay-Z-Boy rocking chair, several soda cans strewn about on the floor. Add a fireplace and the scene is just about set. Bill Denbrough’s house falls perfectly between all seven Losers and serves as the perfect middle ground.  _

Seven adolescent bodies rest on one another. Silver Bullet, courtesy of Richie’s older sister, plays on the scene but Richie can’t find the balls to watch it. He doesn’t say anything, though. He lets the movie drone on while he idly picks at anything his fingers can reach. He can’t fight the feeling that’s bubbling up inside of him. Discomfort sits in the pit of his stomach but he won’t  budge. No, he’s not a pussy. He can handle a little hair and teeth and blood. He’s fourteen, he’s practically a man now. If the others knew he’d never hear the end of it. 

He’s about eight fingers into ripping the cuticles off of his nails when someone scooches up beside him. He feels a gentle bump on his shoulder and finds none other than Bev invading his personal space. 

“Hey, Rich,” she whispers, like really whispers. Not that loud stage shit they do sometimes. This is the kind of whisper that is actually meant to be quiet. The kind that holds secrets. “What’cha doing?”

No one pays them any mind. Richie is positioned on the floor between the couch and the chair. Mike and Stan occupy the small recliner while the other four lay across each other on the three-seater.

“Nothin’” Richie whispers back. He doesn’t quite look up from his work but he can feel her eyes on him. He watches as a small prick of blood builds between the skin and nail of his left ring finger. He keeps picking, though. He can hear the werewolf on screen doing its werewolf things. He’s not interested. Fuck that wolf. This is much more entertaining, anyway. 

“Here,” she says, gently resting her hand over top his. They catch eyes in the dim darkness and Richie swears to god there’s something there. What it is, he has no fucking idea, but her eyes have never quite shone that way before. Her smile was never that soft. 

Maybe it’s the lighting. Yeah. It has to be. 

“Wanna braid my hair?” she asks, voice still so quiet. 

“Bev,” Richie says with a ghost of a breath. His chest is still tight, stomach still uneasy, hands still clammy. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy,” she says and shows him how. She divides a chunk of her hair into three and crosses them under and in-between each other until there’s a small braid. Richie practices twice, nothing but TV static and breath passing between them, before Bev nods and turns around to keep watching the movie. 

With Bev so close and in front of him like this, Richie can’t see the TV anymore. All he can see is the halo of light that outlines her head and shoulders. The sound practically drowns out, for Richie, too. Time slips away. His fingers tangle gently in her hair as he weaves various strands together. He starts with one big braid down the center of her back. Its loose and uneven but he finishes it. When he’s done, he drags his fingers through her hair and repeats it until its tight and pretty and even. 

Over the course of an hour Richie creates various braids in Bev’s hair. At one point he braids three sections and tries to braid  _ that  _ together. It doesn’t go exactly as planned but he doesn’t mind. He just focuses on the pattern, the motions of braiding. He focuses on how soft her hair is. It’s much softer than he ever thought it would be. It’s silky smooth and doesn’t catch between his fingers. He can feel the warmth radiating off of her. It warms the tips of his fingers and he discreetly scooches closers so he can get more of it. The room is cold after all. 

Braiding Bev’s hair is so nice that Richie is almost disappointed when the lights come back on. He thinks that maybe one day he’ll ask Bev if they could do that, again. 

_ Cut the scene. Shift the furniture. Cue the music. No, something else. Something with a beat.  Where’s the glass bottle! Someone get the glass bottle! Dim the lights. Open the curtains.  _

Its nine-o’clock on a Friday night and Richie Tozier has never been more excited. He’s practically bouncing off the walls. His parents think he’s a Bill’s house. In fact, everyone’s parents think they’re at Bill’s. And Bill’s parents think he’s at Richie’s so they’re all set to go. It’s not like anyone’s folks ever call to check in. They’ve been doing this shit for upwards for four years now. If they wanted to call every time some of them hung out they would never have any peace of mind. 

They all came to the party together but now everyone’s seemed to clique off. Richie can see Stan and Mike around a big table of people. Baseball hats, football jackets, the whole shebang. Both of them went out for their respective teams last year and made junior varsity. Richie thinks it’s great for a whole variety of reasons, the main one being that they’re all still friends. When Mike had gone to summer tryouts for the football team everyone was super supportive but Richie couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to change everything, that Mike was going to abandon them all for his hot new popular friends as soon as the jersey went on. 

He didn’t. Thank god. Stan didn’t, either, in the spring when he tried out and made the baseball team. Besides, Richie loved to go to all their games. He would stand on the fence and scream and scream and scream until he couldn’t talk the next day. Stan always told him how much he hated it but Richie swears he can see a shadow of a smile when he’s up to bat. 

Now, though, Richie watches as Stan and Mike stand close to each other and talk to their other friends. He can see them smiling and talking about God knows what. 

Bill, Eddie, and Ben fucked off not too long ago to the snack table. Ben, bless his entire soul, keeps talking about going out for the track team this spring and Richie can see him steadfastly gripping a glass of water while the other two boys go to town on cheese puffs and Doritos. Poor fool. 

Bev is also gone, lost somewhere to the thick of familiar faces. Almost everyone in their grade is here, which is kind of cool. Richie didn’t think they’d ever be the people invited to parties like this one but he guesses that’s just another perk of running with Mike Hanlon and Stan Uris. 

Bill seems to spot Richie the moment he starts to move and waves him over. “Hey, man! Sick party, huh?” 

“Yeah, sure, Big Bill. It’d be even better if there was some liquid fire in the building,” Richie shoots back. The party is supervised by none other than Sally Mueller’s parents. They are up on the second story but they could be down at a moment’s notice just in case something went wrong. 

Bill just rolls his eyes and drapes an arm around Richie’s shoulder. The two fight like that for a moment: Bill trying to shove different chips in Richie’s mouth and Richie batting his hands away and laughing. Ben and Eddie just watch on in amusement until some dude calls for attention from the other room.

“Alright, losers! Time Seven Minutes in Heaven!”

Bill practically drops Richie on the ground as he moves to the living room. He watches as a few others move toward it and scrambles to after them. It doesn’t take long until there’s a decent sized ring of people on the ground one menacing coke bottle sitting in the center. 

“The rules are pretty clear. You spin the bottle and whoever it lands on you have to spend 7 minutes in the closet with. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. There are a few closets so we can double up on turns,” says the boy. Richie never bothered to learn his name. Karl? Ken? Kent? Who cares. “Oh, and whatever happens in the closet stays in the closet, lover birds.”

Richie watches as that same boy takes the bottle and spins it. It whips across the hardwood floor and Richie think that it might never stop spinning. Eventually, though, it slows down and Richie watches as it lands on a girl in Richie’s algebra class, Megan. She laughs as he gently takes her hand and leads her into the coat closet by the door. As soon as it clicks shut there are about five other kids piled by the door with their ears pressed against the wood. 

Sally lets the others be and claps her hands together. “Okay, who’s next!”

The masses cycle in and out of the closet and Richie watches idly as people enter all primed, pressed, and proper and exit with their hair and shirts all roughed up. It’s funny, he thinks to himself, how a little push from a silly glass bottle and four by six space can make people do things they might not do in the light. 

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t see Bev sit down or Sally hand her the bottle. He was hardly even aware when it spun, dancing elegant twirls in the center of the group. By the time it stopped spinning, Bill and Audra have emerged from the closet with dazed expressions and red, swollen lips. 

“Richie?” a voice wafts in from the group, pulling his attention back to the circle. 

He looks around for a second for the source of the voice and finds none other than Bev looking at him with wide eyes and a shy smile. 

“Hi,” is all she says to him before Sally is grabbing her hand and pulling her up and over to Richie. She grabs his hand, too, and pulls them both toward the closet while gushing about how the two of them were destined for this moment. Richie can feel all the blood rush to his face. Holy fuck, is it hot in here? Maybe flannel wasn’t the best choice tonight.

Richie doesn’t even have time to form a proper sentence before they’re pushed into the closet and the door is shut behind them. He stumbles around, grabbing coats and hangers, practically anything to help him keep his balance and not topple straight over. Bev seems more collected than he is. Its dark, but he can tell she’s at least standing.

The first thing Richie really notices is how cramped it is. He can’t move without knocking against Bev or one of the walls or the many, many coats lining the back wall. The second thing he notices is how much hotter it is  _ inside  _ the closet. What the fuck? Did they put a space heater somewhere in this tiny, tiny closet? Seriously, who even makes a closet this small. 

Before Richie can start searching for the heater that is undoubtedly hidden somewhere he notices something else. With how close they’re pressed together, he can feel Bev gently shaking next to him. Her hand knocks against his gently and she utters a soft apology before trying to back into what little space she has on her side. 

“Bev?” Richie asks, soft and gentle. Too loud could startle her, that much he knows. And while Richie can be a bit of a prick sometimes he’s not an asshole. He can read between the lines. 

“Sorry, I – uh,” she stammers back. It’s so unsteady, so unlike the girl he knows so damn well. 

“Hey, you okay?” He asks, voice still that so, so gentle tone. 

“Yeah. I am. I just – sorry,” she stammers again. It’s unsettling for Richie. He’s never seen Bev act this unsure. 

“You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” Realistically, he knows they could leave at any moment. It’s not as if the door is locked. But Richie knows that Sally is keeping a timer and if they leave early that could mean big bullshit for the rest of their high school career. Probably Bev more so than him. Richie has always taken his social status with stride but Bev has only just begun to shed her middle school bullies. 

“No, I know,” she says but there’s something else behind her voice. Something that sounds kind of scared. 

“I mean, we’re best friends after all,” Richie tries. He wants to reach out to her, touch her shoulder or her arm to let her know that it’s all okay but he’s learned the hard way that touching Bev when she doesn’t want to be touched could end in a bloodied nose or worse. So instead he settles for a cautious distance.

“Yeah, we are.”

“So, if you don’t wanna we don’t have to,” he says back. Its gentle and reassuring, yet firm. He doesn’t want her to think that something has to happen with them in here. 

“I’m just scared they’ll know. Everyone else has kissed so far and they all come out looking the same.” It’s almost like she’s arguing with herself, now. It’s as if there’s something big and loud and mean happening in Bev’s head. Something far away from her and Richie and this closet. It makes Richie’s skin itch. He wants to quiet it, to banish it from her for the rest of forever. 

“We can pretend! I’ll rough up my hair a little bit and you can chew on your lip until it turns red. It’s foolproof. In fact, I bet that’s what half of those chumps did themselves.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course, Bev. I’d do anything for you,” Richie can’t see her face though the darkness but knows she’s smiling. He can sense it in the way her shoulders drop down and the small, almost silent sigh escapes her lips. They stay like that for a moment, just basking in the comfortable silence of two people who’ve known each other for so long. 

“It’s stupid,” Bev starts suddenly, a hint of a giggle peeking out from behind her voice. “I’m sixteen and I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

Richie laughs at that. He makes a face even though he knows Bev can’t see it. it’s a cross between exaggeration bewilderment and something uniquely Richie. 

“Yeah,” she continues. “Kinda pathetic, right?”

“Well then, I guess we’re pathetic together,” Richie says. It’s not a dig at himself, it’s just the truth. 

“Wait, no fucking way. You?” Bev asks, still laughing gently. Richie nods at first but then he realizes she probably can’t see him. Or maybe she can because she speaks again. “What about Marcia? Or Julie? Or literally any of the other girls you talk about?”

“Bev, baby. Is there even a Julie in our grade?” Richie says, laughing along with her. He hears her make a shocked noise of understanding. “Hey, in my defense I talk a lot of shit all the time. I didn’t realize you guys actually  _ believed _ me.”

“Man,” she says, voice ten times lighter than it was only minutes ago, “I can’t believe neither of us have never kissed anyone.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “It’s so dumb, too. Like, there’s so much pressure! Who cares!”

“Yeah!” She cheers, back to the spitfire he’s been growing up side by side with. “Who cares about our first kiss. We could kiss each other right here and just be done with it if we wanted.”

Oh. Wait. Shit.

She’s totally right. They really  _ could  _ just kiss right here right now and be done with it. Richie feels something crawl up the back of his throat as he coughs gently. “I’d kiss you if you wanted, Bev,” croaks out half out of impulse and half out of excitement. It’s not nearly as smooth as he intended it to be but hey, what you see is what you get. Bev already knows that. It’s not like she’s going to agree.

“I’d kiss you, too, Rich,” she says and well, there goes that rational. He feels her gently rest both her hands on his chest and he can feel her move into his space. “Do you wanna? Just to try it out?”

Richie’s entire mouth goes dry at that. In the entire time they’ve been together in this small, dark room he never once thought they would actually kiss. Instinctively, he rests his hands on her waist, right above her hips. He nods again, small and dumb, and she definitely sees it this time because she pushes up on her toes and suddenly they’re kissing. 

Well, kissing is an overstatement. Bev entirely misses his mouth in the darkness and kisses his chin. Richie almost starts to laugh but Bev is determined because she immediately shifts her stance and pushes up again and then this time they’re actually kissing. She presses her lips against his and he kisses her back and holy fuck, they’re actually doing it. 

He thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that someone must have opened the door or turned the lights on because all he can see is fire sparking on the other sides of his eyelids. 

The door opens not even thirty seconds later and they’re caught in the act, red handed and guilty. Sally cheers loudly as she grabs Bev’s hand to drag her away and Richie can see some of their friends on the other end of the room giving them  _ the eyes _ . 

Fuck. This is gonna take a lot of explaining. 

_ Set the stage. Shift the backdrop. Wardrobe change. The whole nine yards. Lights, music, wind. Action. Quick, move quick. There isn’t much time left.  _

The Barrens have never been colder. Well, that’s not true. It’s probably colder during the winter but it’s not winter. Not anymore. Most of the snow has melted and the grass is slowly starting to turn green. The leaves haven’t quite come out but that April rain isn’t here yet. All they can see is the open expanse around them. With the trees so bare Richie thinks he can see anything and everything around them. 

Despite that, he feels secluded from the rest of Derry. They’re cut off down here, away from everyone else. It used to be the perfect place for all seven of them to escape the harsh reality of being a kid with bullies and sometimes shitty parents. Now, though, it serves as an escape in a different way. The older they all get the more serious their lives become and it’s only a matter of months before they’re all shipped off in different directions to chase careers they're too young to have. 

Eighteen is too young to make any decision as big as this, Richie thinks. He’s bitter, no doubt, but he’s also excited. He’s got a nervous buzz thrumming around inside of him that won’t stop pulsing. Even in the quiet March air anyone could hear Richie practically bursting out of his skin. His foot taps against the ground as he whistles some song he had heard on the radio on his way over. 

The air around them is filled with the pleasant taste of nicotine as they pass cigarettes back and forth. They’ve been down here once a week since the cold started to lift. They still have another six months of this but its like they’re trying to savor every last moment, really take advantage of every second left. 

Richie pulls his bomber tighter around his middle when the wind blows again. He sees Bev do the same before she starts to inch over toward him. She rests her head on his shoulder and snuggled in nice and close. Richie can’t really tell if its for comfort or his body heat but either way he can’t seem to mind. 

Richie has found that he likes it when Bev presses close to him. She’s a comfortable force in his life. She is present, strong, persistent, and so much more. She’s all the qualities Richie thinks might be good for him. In fact, it might just be because of Ms. Marsh that he’s even made it this far.

“I bet you’re looking forward to no more cold in L.A.,” she says against his shoulder. 

“You bet your sweet ass, I am,” he says back. She passes him the Winston and he takes it, drawing in a deep inhale and thanking the Gods for the fire it kindles in his chest. 

“Lucky bastard,” she teases, grabbing the stick back and taking her own drag. 

“Hey, I’m not the one who chose to go to school in fucking Boston,” he says. It’s meant as a joke but there’s something else in between the words. A hint of that bitterness he can’t quite shake. It’s not really fair to Bev for him to hold a grudge for this. It’s not like he’s going to school any closer to home than she is. 

She doesn’t take the bait, though, and Richie is thankful. He doesn’t mean to ruin the moment and she seems to understand that. 

It shifts back to a comfortable silence as they settle into each other. At some point, Richie draped an arm over Bev’s shoulder to bring them even closer together. 

For body heat, of course. 

Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever admit it but he swears he can feel something in the way they’re pressed together. He feels it when they pass notes back and forth during class or when they share the couch during movie nights. It’s in the way Richie helps her with her fashion designs and Bev volunteers to be the test of one of Richie’s new jokes or Voices. It’s laced in every interaction and every thought. 

He’ll never admit it, though. Bev is too important to him to ruin with three measly little words. They trust each other. What they have goes too deep for him to wreck. And he knows he would, too. There is no universe in which things with Bev ever work out as anything other than friends. Richie is too loud, too crude, too emotionally stupid for it to work. He’d wreck them both within the year, if they even made it that far. 

Besides, they’re leaving soon. What’s the point? Bev is heading a little while South and Richie is carting is ass all the way across the country. 

California still seems like a dream to him. When he applied to UCLA he never really expected to get in. He had anyone he could ever ask for on his side rooting for him but it still came a shock when he got the letter in the mail. Less of a shock was Bev’s own acceptance letter, followed by everyone else's. Eddie to New York, Ben to Chicago, Stan to Atlanta. 

Fuck, it’s all real now, isn’t it? He’s not quite sure what the Lucky Seven will mean anymore once they’re all split up but he doesn’t want to think about it. He only wants to think about the way the smoke twists and spins above them or how Bev fits just right under his arm. He can see her rosy cheeks and red nose from this angle and he pulls the top of her hat down to cover her eyes. She laughs and bats his hands away but doesn’t move. Instead, she brings his hand down to rest in her lap and intertwines their fingers together. 

And Richie is thankful for that. 

_ Cut the wind and start the snow. Make it thick and coat the roads in it. Despite that, the scene is warm. The loud murmur of voices lingers in the background as seven people reunite for the first time in months.  _

Life in L.A. is great and everything but Richie can’t shake that empty feeling he has in the center of his chest. He’s long since gotten used to it, though. He’s been out here for over a year and it’s easy to get used to something so steady and common. It was just another adjustment he had to make when he moved. Wear more sunscreen, wash your own clothes, ignore the gaping hole in your heart. All a part of the routine. 

No one ever told him growing up would be this hard.

Thankfully, though, he’s getting a break from the chaos of it all. That break started two days ago when his plane touched down in Bangor Airport. It took another day to be able to get everyone in the same room but it all pays off when he walks through the doors of the restaurant and sees six familiar faces crowded around a table, sucking down iced-teas and talking as if their lives depended on it. 

“Trashmouth!” Stan is the first to call out to him, getting up and wrapping Richie up in a hug he honestly wasn’t expecting. Stan isn’t always so affectionate but reunions can really bring that out in a person, especially since it’s been almost a year since they were all together. 

Mike is next, scooping Richie up into a backbreaking hug and asking how he’s been. The questions start rolling in from there. 

How is California? Did you miss us? Get into any shit out there, yet?

Richie takes everything in stride and he even shoots back questions of his own. They get settled at the table again and Richie finds out that Bev has fallen completely head over heels in love with Boston, Eddie changed his major to nursing, and Bill got into a fight with one of his professors. Not like a fist fight, though. The dudes apparently a huge dick and thinks Bill’s writing is shit. He’s wrong, obviously, because Bill went to a publisher just to spite him and now his work is getting printed. 

Fuck that dude, right?

Ben’s doing great, too. He’s at the top of his program and he’s about to start interviewing for summer internships. He doesn’t have much to worry about, though. Places have already started scouting him out. Apparently all the local companies have heard of Chicago’s biggest architecture prodigy. And Mike has taken a job at Derry’s library. Richie doesn’t get the appeal but he’ll support Mike in anything he does, even if he does tease him mercilessly. 

It’s all out of love, anyway. 

The conversation keeps on as the food comes out. No one really bothers to shut their mouths as they eat. It’s easy to fall back into the familiar rhythm. They all run so deep with each other that they’re family. Nothing can tear them apart or come in between them. The blood is too thick, the bond runs too deep. Richie wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s no better way to move through life than with six other parts of himself. Six other people who know him better than he knows himself. 

There’s something serene about being back together. It slows the constant buzzing in his veins, settles the ever present urge to be moving, twitching, doing  _ something _ . She never fails to calm him down and spark him up at the same damn time. 

Bev is a lamp in the dim lighting of the restaurant. She’s practically glowing from where she’s sandwiched between Ben and Mike, laughing like someone just told the world's funniest joke. Even though Richie isn’t the cause of that laughter it lifts him up so high he feels like he’s choking. He feels like all the air has left his body and it’s just him floating high above the table while everyone else keeps existing. It’s just him, his thoughts, and Bev’s laughter. 

He chalks it up to the feeling of being reunited. There’s nothing more addicting than becoming whole again and seeing his childhood best friends is his choice of drug. With Stan across from him and Eddie at his side, Richie feels more at home than he has in a long, long time. Plane tickets are too expensive and so is the cost of living out there. It didn’t make any sense for Richie to stay on campus past his first year so he shacked up with some buddies from his program and he’s been paying rent and bills ever since. It’s not always cost effective to fly home for every single break and even though his family is well off, Went and Maggie aren’t millionaires. They’re already helping him with his rent, it’s not fair for him to ask for more than that. 

Richie has too many classes on his plate to take on a second job so he’s strapped for cash more often than not. Typically, his family visits him. It’s an excuse to escape the cold Derry air and boring monotony and they know it saves him an extra buck or two in the long run. Given his circumstances, Christmas is the only time Richie really gets to come home. He’s on break from school and has two solid weeks booked off from work so he parked his ass on a plane and graced the stratosphere with his presence for seven hours. 

“Hey, Dick!” someone shouts from across the table, effectively putting him out of his clouds, “You gonna finish those tacos, man?” 

Mike is giving him a weird look from across the table. In fact, when Richie looks around he sees that everyone in. He’s about to say something smart, something that would surely get him beeped it if actually made it out of his mouth, but Bev pegs him in the face with a fry before he can. 

“Don’t even think about it!” She says and now she’s looking at him, eyes locked on his and laughter directed at him and fuck that feels good. He’s missed that. He didn’t even really realize how much until now. He makes a mental note to grab the phone number for her dorm room before he goes back to L.A. just so he can hear that laugh more often. 

“Don’t start a battle you can’t finish, Marsh.”

It’s a good thing they’re all mostly finished with their food because they’re asked to leave not long after. Something about throwing food and causing a major disruption. 

Whatever, spoilsports. 

Goodbyes are long. They stand in the parking lot for at least another forty minutes and Richie can see the waitstaff shooting them dirty looks from inside. Eventually, though everyone starts to move to their own cars. Stan and Mike came together, so they climb in to Stan’s old truck. The others all climb into their own rides. Richie lingers, though. He leans against the hood of his old, rusty pickup and watches the taillights of his friend’s cars fade off down the road. They’ve made plans to see each other at least two more times as a group before they start to scatter again, but Richie knows he’ll see them all more than that. He’s got coffee planned with Eddie and a movie date with Ben down at the Aladdin. He’s planning on savoring every possible minute with them. 

After a while he finally climbs into his truck and starts the engine. A small piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it burns a hole into the pocket of his jeans. 

_ Cut the wind. Draw the curtain. Shift the focus. Blast the heat. More, turn the temperature up higher. This isn’t Derry anymore. It hasn’t been Derry for a hot damn minute and it might not be for a while.  _

He’s sweating. Hell, they’re all probably sweating. Its 90 degrees and they’re all dressed in this ridiculous gown and, to top it all off, of course the ceremony had to be outdoors. Of fucking course. They couldn’t plan an indoor thing? They couldn’t give them the sweet relief of air conditioning? This is supposed to be one of the most important days of his young life and here he is, sweating so much he thinks he’ll drip a puddle on stage and slip on it. 

As he watches his classmates cross the stage he wishes all of his friends were here to see it. It’s not that the Losers didn’t want to come to Richie’s graduation. It’s more of an availability thing. Richie gets it. It's not exactly cheap to fly all the way to California and it's not like everyone can take off work for four different graduations.

It’s only four because Bill graduated an entire year early and has moved to Washington State to purse his writing career. What the hell is in Washington, Richie has no clue, but it’s meant that he’s gotten to see Big Bill twice over the past year. Mike also finished early. He got confirmed in December and is now working full time back in Derry Eddie and Ben are actually graduating at the same time next weekend so it would be practically impossible for anyone to choose between the two of them. And Bev? Well, she’s already graduated. She was the first in a long month of ceremonies. She took the stage by storm on Wednesday. Who the fuck graduates in the middle of the week? Massart, apparently. 

Speaking of Bev, she’s somewhere out in the crowd with Richie’s parents. Richie insisted up and down that she  _ didn’t have to come _ but she did anyway. She touched down early in the morning and Went picked her up. Richie hasn’t even seen her yet but he knows she has to be absolutely stunning. Once every couple of months he’ll get a letter in the mail from her. They talk on the phone often enough but Richie doesn’t mind the letters. He secretly loves them. 

Sometimes, in the envelope, she’ll slip in a polaroid. The first one was a shot of her smiling, red hair cascading down her shoulders. She had a pair of overalls half buttoned with some kind of patterned shirt on under. Someone else had obviously taken it and in the letter she had said something like  _ so you don’t forget my pretty face _ . 

Pft. Like he could even begin to forget Bev. 

The second time he got one was of her standing next to an outfit she had designed and made herself. The picture was black and white but he knew it had to be amazing. She looked so damn proud standing next to that mannequin. The third one was a candid shot of her laughing at a party with some friends. He could feel a twinge of jealousy twisting in his chest when he looked at it, longing to be there with her. She looked so happy, so relaxed. So carefree. It made his chest crack open at how much he missed her.

He’s kept every picture she’s ever sent packed away in a shoebox with all of her letters. He keeps them under the bed in his apartment to look at when he’s feeling off. They’re tucked away, safe and sheltered and his. 

He’s even sent her a few pictures over the years. Some serious ones where he’s smiling at the camera and some dumb ones where he’s doing stupid shit he can’t even remember. He silently hopes she saves them, too. 

He shifts on the ramp, waiting and watching as every name gets called before his. The wait is agonizing. It's the anticipation, really. He knows that it's gonna be fine. It’ll be over in a matter of second. All he has to do is walk across that stage, accept his degree, and exit down the other side. It’s as easy as pie. 

Except Richie can’t bake. He can count the number of things he’s baked on two hands and the number of things that actually came out edible is microscopic. He distinctly remembers when he tried to bake two different cake mixes in the same pan. It worked but the cake nearly consumed the entire oven. Maggie stopped letting him near the mixer after that.   

The names keep ringing out across the stadium and he’s close, so close to the edge. There’s four people in front of him and he watches them as they walk. He thinks about how they do it, left foot and right foot, and wonders if he’ll be able to pull it off. He might be funny and charming and damn good looking but he has the grace of a bull in a china shop.

As luck would have it, his time runs out and soon  _ Richard Wentworth Tozier, Magna Cum Laude _ booms out of the microphone and he’s walking across the stage. He shakes the dean’s hand and turns out to the crowd. He doesn't think he’ll find them but sure enough, there is his family cheering and screaming and waving at him. He beams up at them, waving his degree cover over his head and smiling big and bright. He did it. He fucking did it. He graduated from college and now he’s moving out into the real world. 

He scans his across the row, looking at his sister, Maggie, Went, and eventually locking eyes with the one and only Beverly Marsh. When he sees her out there, blasting her air horn and jumping up and down at her seat, he knows she’s the one. He can feel it in his fucking bones. It’s always been Bev. From the moment he saw her on that bench he knew it would be her. Everything in their entire lives has been leading up to this. It hits him so hard he damn near drops his degree before turning and walking off the stage. 

He makes it, though. Just barely. 

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. The other departments sift through their degrees, the final speaker talks, and then its over. Four years of Richie’s life concluded by a single four hour ceremony and a piece of paper he’s now clutching desperately to his chest as he weaves through the masses. 

They all planned to meet at the front of Rolfe Hall. It’s close enough to the ceremony but far enough out that there should be less people. He finds them easily enough and is immediately wrapped up in what feels like a thousand hugs. Maggie is first, then Wentworth. Marissa follows after that and then Bev. 

It’s a flurry of excitement. Richie’s parents have already set up dinner reservations and Went is steadfastly leading them toward the car, insisting that if they don’t leave now they won’t make their reservation. It’s everything Richie deserves according to his parents but he’s got his eyes on another prize. She’s dressed to the nines and smiling brightly as they entire Tozier clan adds a little more character to one of the upper class restaurants in L.A. 

He would skip every fancy dinner on earth to be able to get two minutes alone with Bev. Ever since he saw her from the stage he knew that this was it. Looking back now he doesn’t know how he’s let this go on for so long. How the hell has he kept this locked so tight in his chest? 

He can feel the itch to tell her sitting in his chest, in his lungs. It makes him tap his fingers and kick his legs and fiend for a cigarette so badly he actually excuses himself from dinner. His parents don’t exactly approve of his habit, but he can't find it in himself to care. Normally he would try to wait out of respect for them, but it’s not like he’s particularly involved in their conversation. 

The night air is cool on his skin as he lights a stick and takes a drag. The burn is soothing. It quells the buzzing in his skin and takes him down a couple of pegs. It’s just what he needs to be able to face the rest of the night with his family. 

As if on cue, the door to the restaurant opens and Bev steps out, pulling her own pack from her purse and lighting up. She smiles gently at him through her inhale and bumps her shoulder against his. A silent hello. 

He figures now is his chance. Tomorrow is another day with his family and then then they’re all leaving on Sunday. If he doesn't talk to her now he never will. There’s no more time. 

“Have you found work back in Boston, yet?” Richie asks, exhaling his own drag and glancing over at her. “Not yet, but I have an interview with a fashion company in two weeks. I don’t know if I’ll get it, though,” she answers, eyeing him for a moment and then shrugging. 

“You know, there’s plenty of fashion work out here in L.A,” He tries to be casual but he can’t. It’s not who he is. He’s everything except for casual, an open book with boldface print. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Loads, even. If you wanted to you could move out here. I’d help you get on your feet and everything,” he’s inching toward it. Slowly showing her his cards. 

“Oh, how kind of you Mr. Tozier,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“I am nothing if not a gentleman, Ms. Marsh,” he shoots back. It’s just teasing enough that he could play it off it he needed to but there’s something under the tone. Something he’s placed there for Bev to find if she wants to. She could easily pretend it’s not there, an easy out of the Richie’s half assed love confession. But she could also call him out if she wanted to. And fuck does Richie want her to want to. 

“You’re serious?” she says, voice cautious. It’s almost as if she’s testing him, asking him to say it out loud. Asking him to confirm her suspicions. It’s a game of cat and mouse, both of them too unsure to commit to the truth. 

And why is that? Richie has spent the last ten years running from the truth. Every time he sees her, every time he looks at her he feels more at home than he ever has. He wants her but he’ll never have her if he can’t ask. They’ll never get anywhere if they keep this up. 

Fuck it. 

“Yeah. Hundred percent. Don’t go back to Boston. Stay with me,”

“Rich,” she sounds like she’s about to shut him down but he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to know that she doesn’t feel the same way about him. He wants her here, with him. It’s where she belongs. 

“It’s crazy, I know, but please. Don’t leave.” He wants her wrapped in his arms at night and eating breakfast at the table with him in the morning. He wants to hold her hand and make her food and kiss her every chance he can. He wants to hear all about her day every single day until they both grow old and die. 

“But what about moving? What about my stuff?”

“I can go with you instead! I’ll go to Boston,” Richie tries.  _ Come on, Bev. Please. _

“What about your stuff!” She’s laughing now, smacking Richie’s arm and then grasping the sleeve. She holds him there, inching closer toward him and looking up at him with those big, brown eyes. 

“We’ll figure it out. I want you, Bev. Forever,” Richie says, voice soft. He’s begging, pleading with her.  _ Please, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me again. I could hardly handle the last four years without you, don’t make me do it again.  _ “Take a chance on me.”

It feels like forever before she answers. It’s probably only seconds but for Richie it stretches out for years. He’s old and gray and wrinkled by the time she utters a small  _ okay _ and wraps her arms around his middle. He hugs her back, tight and urgent and so fucking needy but that doesn’t matter. She said yes. She’s gonna stay. Or maybe he’s gonna move to Boston. Honestly, he’s not sure which it is but it who fucking cares because she’s going to stay  _ with him. _

She kisses him first. It’s only fitting. He may have practically admitted to wanting to spend the rest of forever with her but he’ll always be too scared to make the first move. Her lips slide against his and he fucking transcends. Even though they’re 23 and not 14 she still tastes the same way she did all those years ago. There's a hint of Winston's on her breath and the cold feel of an Altoid. She sets fireworks off in every part of his body. Her kiss is the spark and Richie is a decades worth of pent up matches just begging to be lit. 

_ This is it,  _ he thinks.  _ We’re gonna make it.  _

When she pulls back, he’s left breathless. No words come out as he stares down into her soft blue eyes. It’s everything he’s always known he’s wanted in this life, nestled down in the very circuitry of his soul. 

The world buzzes on around them as Richie Tozier, all wrapped up in Beverly Marsh, smokes his cigarette and fantasizes about the rest of their lives. 

_ Draw the curtains. Cut the music. Fade to black. That’s a wrap, folks.  _

**Author's Note:**

> This is my secret santa gift for multi-parker.tumblr.com! I hope you like it. I might have gone a little overboard but I made sure to include some of the prompts you asked for (warm hats, rosy cheeks!)
> 
> I have literally always wanted to write for this pairing so I was super stoked to find out you included them in your ship list! I reall hope you enjoy this, I had tons of fun writing it for you. I'm sorry its so late but better late than never!
> 
> Happy holidays, dear!
> 
> Also, Huge shout out to tinyarmedtrex for beta reading this! She recently put out a reddie band au and it is to die for so check that shit out immediately


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